


i hope you're waiting at the end

by soloecal



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 22:18:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11815314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soloecal/pseuds/soloecal
Summary: Sometimes, Spencer thinks too much. Post Season 12.-A month later, on a singularly insignificant night, Spencer sits Hotch down after dinner, and presses a ring into the palm of his hand. “This isn’t working,” Spencer says. “I think we should break up.”





	i hope you're waiting at the end

**Author's Note:**

> \- indicates non-chronological time jump, * indicates chronological time jump.

They catch Mr. Scratch. Sort of, anyway. Luke gets one handcuff around his wrist before he somehow jerks out of his grasp, pulls a knife out from God knows where and lunges towards JJ with a single-minded purpose. He goes up in a spray of blood before he’s anywhere near her, and when the smoke clears, they’re all standing there, guns pointed towards the corpse of a man that will never hurt them again.

Afterwards, Hotch comes home. It’s a bit more complicated than that, admittedly; it takes a while for the paperwork to clear, and just as long for the FBI to track him down. Jack’s in the middle of his school year when they finally find them, and they stay until he finishes. Hotch fills out his reinstatement forms, and has a long talk with Cruz over lunch, not necessarily in that order. But afterwards, after that, he comes home.

*

A month later, on a singularly insignificant night, Spencer sits Hotch down after dinner, and presses a ring into the palm of his hand. “This isn’t working,” Spencer says. “I think we should break up.”

Spencer doesn’t really know what he’s expecting in response; he has a whole speech prepared that mostly consists of _it’s not you, it’s me_ , and genuinely meaning it, but Hotch nods, and looks thoughtful, like they’re discussing a case.

Spencer had accounted for an admittedly large number of possible reactions from Hotch, ones that fit the man’s personality, and ones that were purely derived from daytime soap operas. It wasn’t so much that Spencer thought he warranted the drama and histrionics that were normally associated, but that he has no basis for this at all, and a data point was a data point, however obtained.

He hesitates for too long. Hotch settles into his seat, careful not to be as close as they were before. “Can you tell me what changed?” Spencer hesitates again, because he doesn’t want to say. He’d like to leave it like this, with this image of himself being what Hotch remembers. “Please, Spencer,” which isn’t really fair at all.

 

* * *

 

Spencer thought he fell in love with Hotch from the moment he saw him. Love at first sight wasn’t a very scientific thing, but there was nothing scientific about the way his heart rate sped up and his skin flushed all over every time Hotch so much as glanced his way. The palpitations were a clear health hazard; it was almost funny that _this_ was what was going to be his ruin.

He settled, eventually. Eventually his body learned to regulate its temperature around Hotch, his heart learned to pulse at the average human rate; he stopped stumbling over his words because he was in love, and just stuck to tripping over them in haste.

But it happened, despite himself.

Spencer had never remembered anything so clearly as he remembered this - it was a Friday night, and they had all gone out to a bar of Morgan’s choice. Rossi bought the first round with feigned protest, and dished out shots that Garcia chose. They were fruity, and sweet, and deceptively strong. By the end of the night, Spencer couldn’t see two feet in front of him, but he could recall with perfect clarity Hotch’s hand under his elbow, his lips by Spencer’s ear, the low pitch of his voice when he said _come home with me_.

In the morning, Spencer woke to drawn curtains, a glass of water, and an Advil on the bedside table. Behind him, Hotch’s body pressed along his back, his hand resting over Spencer’s heart.

“It’s about time,” Spencer had said, far braver than he actually felt, and Hotch laughed, tugged on Spencer’s shoulder until he was on his back, and kissed him into unintelligibility.

-

It’d taken years to get there.

Haley died on a Saturday, and on Sunday morning, Spencer dragged himself to the grocery store and limped around the aisles picking up things at random and tossing them into a cart. It wasn’t until he was almost at the registers that he doubled back, unloaded the boxes and cans and filled it with fruits and vegetables instead.

Hotch let him in without much protest, asked him all the right questions about his knee in a voice that didn’t match his eyes or his expression. Outside, there was a violent downpour, and Spencer didn’t mention how it started to ache an hour before the rain.

He took over the kitchen in his wet pants and damp shirt, chopped up celery and carrots and onions into an uneven mirepoix while Hotch looked helplessly on, and occasionally tried to hand him a kitchen tool he didn’t need. “Go sit,” Spencer said.

“I can’t do this,” Hotch said. Sometimes Spencer thought he was imagining things, but then Hotch would make vague statements that only contributed to his confirmation bias.

“I don’t want you to do anything,” Spencer told him, “except to eat this soup.” Over Hotch’s shoulder, Spencer saw Jack peek around the doorway, and his heart hurt in a way his knee never could, so he sunk down to eye level. “Hi Jack,” Spencer said, waving. “Are you hungry?”

Jack glanced at Hotch, and hesitantly made his way forward. Spencer could see something shatter in Hotch’s eyes, and he patted the floor in front of him. “Do you like chicken noodle soup?”

“This is Spencer,” Hotch said quietly. “He was here – ”

 _Yesterday_ , Spencer mentally supplied as Hotch grimaced, _and never before_. Before then, the last time Spencer had seen Jack was when he was a baby, wrapped in blankets and tucked into a stroller. Haley had stood over him with a wide smile that barely fit her face. Hotch tilted his head at him, as if to say _this is what I can’t do_ , as if Spencer hadn’t understood, as if he could have possibly wanted anything else.

-

It was a last minute decision made on a whim while he was finishing up the last of his paperwork. They were on stand-down the next week, after a long few months of flying back and forth between small towns straight out of Faulkner. Spencer booked his tickets, filed his leave request, and couldn’t find a ride to the airport.

The rest of the bullpen had cleared out hours prior, so Spencer reluctantly pulled out his phone to call a taxi. They had just handled a case involving a cab driver with a fetish for limbs, and Spencer still shuddered at the thought of the smell in the trunk.

“I approved your PTO,” Hotch said. Spencer looked up, and tried not to smile. Hotch’s tie was loosened, jacket unbuttoned, the closest he would ever get to casual in the office. Sometimes Spencer thought Hotch slept in full suits, but that was a preposterous idea. “Are you going to see your mother?” He asked, making his way down the steps.

Spencer nodded, and glanced at his phone. “I just need to call a taxi.”

Hotch winced a little, and Spencer grinned. “Come on,” Hotch said. “I’ll give you a ride.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Spencer protested. “I’m sure you want to get going.”

“Jack’s with Haley,” Hotch said, voice perfectly neutral and steady. “He’ll be there for the weekend.” _And what else is there at home,_ Spencer heard, only because he understood far too well.

The drive was quiet, Spencer flicking through the radio stations and settling on none. Hotch shot him an almost amused look and batted his hand away, leaving it on NPR. Spencer remembered everything else that happened in the minutes after like some sort of fever dream, hazy and not entirely there.

Hotch pulled up at drop-offs and unloaded Spencer’s suitcase, said something generic like _have a good time,_ or maybe _safe flight Reid_. Spencer opened his mouth to thank him, and mumbled something entirely incoherent instead.

“I’m sorry?” Hotch asked, a weird look on his face.

“Nothing,” Spencer responded, pulling his suitcase close. “Thanks for the ride. Have a good time with Jack.” He turned to leave, but Hotch was holding his arm, suddenly.

“Did you just ask if I wanted to come with you?” Hotch’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, baffled, a combination of other emotions that seemed somehow contradictory. Spencer tried to shake his head and nod at the same time, but only succeeded in pulling a muscle.

“I just thought it might be something to do,” Spencer said. “But I didn’t want you think I was pitying you.” Spencer paused, reconsidered. “I’m not really sure what I was thinking. It wouldn’t have been remotely adequate.”

Hotch let go of his arm. “I can’t,” he said in an odd voice. “I pick Jack up Sunday night, and I have a few errands to run before then.”

“No, of course,” Spencer answered hurriedly. “I wasn’t really – I _didn’t_ really – ” he stopped, before he could say something worse.

“Reid,” Hotch said, after the silence had stretched too long and too thin, “you’re not inadequate.” Which wasn’t really what Spencer meant. But it was an interesting interpretation, and Spencer mused on it on the plane until he fell asleep.

-

But there was something before even that:

The first few miles from Mr. Corbett’s house had been driven in silence. Spencer angled his body away from Hotch and towards the window, twisted his fingers in his lap and stared out into the night.

“That was thoughtful of you,” Hotch said quietly, turning down the radio. “I’m sure he appreciated the gesture.”

It had only been months after Owen Savage, and Spencer was somewhat surprised to hear something resembling praise. He turned slightly to face forward, and told Hotch this.

“If he’d tried to pull the trigger, I wouldn’t be saying this,” Hotch said dryly. “That being said, you do have a tendency to develop connections.” It sounded as if he were hesitating. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“It wasn’t with the unsub this time,” Spencer said, and he wasn’t sure if he was being defensive or explanatory; neither was really necessary with the way Hotch was looking at him, contemplative and everything gentle.

“No, it wasn’t,” Hotch agreed quietly. Spencer fiddled with the zipper on his jacket, and didn’t look up until Hotch spoke again. “But that wouldn’t have been a bad thing either. I meant it, back then.”

Spencer looked over at Hotch, barely illuminated by the lights of passing cars. the shadows flickered around his face, dipping into curves and lines and making him looked more tired than usual. It had only been months after his divorce, Spencer realized.

“You’re very good at your job,” Hotch continued. “We’re lucky to have you.”

It was suddenly hard to swallow. Spencer turned away again, and spoke to the window. “I wonder,” he said, but didn’t finish.

-

As long as it had taken for them to get together, it took equally as long for Spencer to become fully comfortable in the relationship. It wasn’t any specific thing that he needed to change, but a combination of everything; a new relationship – a _first_ relationship, a constant worry that everything would fall apart. Spencer didn’t actively engage in self-sabotage, but he was consistently a natural at it.

A few months into their…arrangement, because Spencer still couldn’t quite bring himself to recognize that they were _dating_ , Spencer’s apartment was evacuated because of a gas leak. It wasn’t anything too major, but the building he lived in was old and borderline crumbling, and digging up the foundation to reach the gas lines only exacerbated the issue.

“It’ll just be a few months,” Hotch said, cajolingly. “It won’t be that bad, living with us.”

Spencer’s relationship with children was best described as a work in progress, and it didn’t help when they walked in Hotch’s front door to see Jack barreling towards them, hands covered in purple paint. Hotch caught him before he could reach Spencer and his box of books, and swung him into the air.

Jessica followed, looking far more amused than the situation warranted. She offered to take Jack for the night but Spencer protested almost instinctively – he didn’t want Hotch to think he couldn’t handle it, didn’t want Jack to think he didn’t like him; the words were halfway out of his mouth and he could already feel himself panicking, but the smile Hotch gave him was blinding, settling.

“What are you painting?” Spencer asked. Small steps forward. 

-

About a week after Hotch returned, Spencer had his first nightmare. It was hazy, and he didn’t remember the details, just the feeling of incomprehensible fear and an inability to run. He woke up in a cold sweat, shirt clinging to his chest and a suffocating weight threatening to squeeze out the last bit of air from his throat.

“Spencer?” Hotch asked, voice rough and hazy with sleep. Spencer felt the bed dip as Hotch rolled onto his side to reach the lamp.

“Don’t,” Spencer said hoarsely. “Please don’t.”

He felt Hotch’s hesitation, but it was only momentary and he rolled back, wrapping an arm around Spencer’s waist and pulling him close. Spencer resisted the instinctive urge to push him away, and almost didn’t shudder when Hotch brushed his nose against his neck. “Please talk to me.”

“I can’t,” Spencer said, and meant it; he couldn’t put into words the way he felt, the way things were different now. There were days when he looked into the mirror and didn’t recognize himself, and recognized his own thoughts even less. He’d tried, in a notebook, to lay out how his thought process got him to poisoning people, even guilty ones, and found himself parsing the legal definition of self defense.

Gideon had told him once, long ago, that he didn’t need to carry a gun to kill someone. Spencer hadn’t understood what he meant – still didn’t, some days – but this probably wasn’t it.

*

His therapist thought his nightmares had surfaced because he was less worried now, which seemed wrong, but he couldn’t think clearly enough to produce a well-reasoned argument. She talked about how since he was no longer worried about Hotch, his mind was now dealing with its own fears. She talked about how the first step to healing was acceptance, but it wasn’t like he was in denial; Spencer knew what he did; this is who he is.

During dinner, Jack talked about how his friends were a bit different now. They’re still his friends, he said, carefully and hesitantly, chasing peas around his plate. But they had memories and experiences that he wasn’t a part of, and as much as he tried, he felt a little out of place.

Spencer stayed quiet through the conversation. Hotch said all the right things, comforted Jack and told him it wasn’t his fault, that things and people changed, and sometimes it was for the better. He wondered if Jack was old enough to recognize platitudes yet. 

-

His apartment finished their renovations in early spring. It’d taken longer than expected; multiple days of snowstorms and the subsequent slush throughout the winter had thrown them wildly off schedule, and for financial reasons, Spencer moved his possessions from the rental storage into Hotch’s garage instead.

His landlord left a message on Hotch’s home phone, a quick note about how the building was ready, and apologies for the delay. _Re-sign now and receive 50% off the first month’s lease!_  he faxed over, which actually was quite a bit of money, so that was a bit depressing.

“I’ll go do that tomorrow,” Spencer said, taking off his jacket and dropping his bag by the door. Hotch was watching him oddly, like he’d never seen him before. He wasn’t saying anything, which was a thing Hotch did sometimes – he’d watch someone, peering over glasses he didn’t wear, and then walk away, having clearly come to a conclusion he didn’t care to share. Spencer was used to it; he’d been subject to these looks a lot, in the earlier years.

“You could also…not,” Hotch suggested.

“Oh,” Spencer said. “Did you have plans for tomorrow? I thought I’d do it during lunch.”

Hotch gave him another one of those looks, careful and inscrutable. “Has it been that bad, living here?”

“No, of course not,” Spencer said. It’d been rather nice, really. Hotch was a morning person where Spencer wasn’t, and there was always coffee and breakfast ready when he woke. Initially there’d been a whole _thing_ about the breakfast; Spencer didn’t really eat it, and Hotch had all the lessons of being a father ingrained in him. Eventually they settled on a compromise, Spencer would have at least a piece of toast, and Hotch wouldn’t say _I told you so_ if he got heartburn.

Hotch was still staring at him, and it was becoming a little unsettling. “I’m going to go start dinner,” Spencer said, but it sounded like a question. “Does pasta sound okay?”

“You could stay,” Hotch said, which wasn’t an answer to anything Spencer asked. “With us. You could move in permanently.” He tugged Spencer close by his waist, before Spencer could fully filter through what had been said. “Nothing would be different.”

There were a few days between that, and an answer. Spencer liked to think he was rational about the situation, didn’t panic and escape to JJ’s for a week before she and Garcia dragged him bodily back to Hotch’s. He liked to think he thought things through, and came to a careful decision. Hotch, on his part, gave him space and time, didn’t bring it up during work, and tried to give him assignments through Rossi where possible.

In the end, Spencer missed him. He missed Hotch’s comfort and warmth, missed Jack’s ridiculous internal weekend alarm, missed the house that felt like home. He was a little annoyed that the whole thing felt like some sort of conditioning, but couldn’t really muster up any actual offense. In the end, Spencer called his landlord out of courtesy, and told him he wouldn’t be moving back in.

-

He switched therapists. She was a bit more no nonsense, a bit more to the point, but Spencer was still Spencer, and he already knew that what was wrong with him was _him_.

They talk about the isolation, how Spencer got himself in solitary. It wasn’t a place most people wanted to be, but Spencer chose it. She wanted to know why.

The day after Spencer was released, Emily came by the too-empty house, and wrapped her arms around his shoulder. He had his back to the living room wall, which made it marginally better, but it was still difficult not to instinctively push her away. She sat him down, held his hand, told him how proud she was that he’d gotten himself somewhere safe, somewhere he couldn’t be harmed.

She told him again that it was over, that his name was cleared, that Catherine Adams and Lindsey Vaughn had committed the murder, that he would be reinstated. The Bureau had apologized, and pledged their full support going forward. He’d nodded, offered her a drink, said the right things. He guided the conversation until he guided her out the door, manipulated her the same way he’d manipulated Shaw into stabbing him.

“I was afraid I’d hurt someone else,” Spencer said. His therapist nodded, wrote something down.

*

When he got home, Hotch was on the phone. Part of his agreement with Cruz was that he’d take less hours in the office when they weren’t on call, and do some of his paperwork at home. Hotch smiled at him, pulled him into a loose hug, and gestured towards the kitchen with his head.

Jack was sitting at the breakfast counter, his tongue between his teeth, frowning at the notebook in front of him. His eyes lit up when he noticed Spencer, and beckoned him forward with a hushed whisper. “Daddy says I have to try myself before asking for help, but I’ve already tried a lot!”

Jack was doing math homework using some new method the school district had come up with. It was convoluted and not entirely intuitive, and while Spencer had always been a proponent of different ways of learning, it didn’t seem like it was making anything easier.

Hotch came in when they were finishing up. The smile on his face was wide, and only highlighted the wrinkles that had set in in the past few years. Spencer smiled back at him, a little.

He pressed a hand against Spencer’s lower back, and rested his chin on Spencer’s shoulder. “How’s the new therapist?”

Spencer tensed immediately, and felt Hotch do so too. His hand slipped off Spencer’s back, maybe hesitantly, and straightened. When Spencer turned around, Hotch was watching him with careful eyes that said nothing. Hotch was nervous around him too. Spencer tried to catch his breath, swallowed, ran; which seemed awfully familiar.

-

A few days after he was released, he met Morgan in a cafe located in a busy section of Georgetown. All of the seats and tables were positioned in the middle of the store, and Spencer jumped every time someone walked past him. “How are you doing?” Morgan asked. Spencer reached for his cup and rethought it, leaned back in his chair with a forced casualness instead.

“Fine,” he said automatically, but he didn’t sound like it, even to himself. “Emily says you found something on Mr. Scratch.”

Morgan surveyed him over his mug. Spencer could tell he wanted to say something, maybe _don’t change the subject_ , or _how could you poison someone like that_ , but fatherhood was good for him, and he was no longer as impulsive as he once could be. “Yeah. I think you should sit this one out.”

“Why would I do that?” Spencer asked.

“Because it’s personal to you,” Morgan said, when he meant _because we can’t trust you anymore_. “You’re in love with Hotch.” _You tried to kill an entire jail full of people_.

“Have you told Savannah you don’t love her yet?” Spencer asked, all barbs and acid. “Is that why you worked her case?” He blindly tossed bills down on the table, and rushed out, bumping into others and suppressing an urge to scream. Behind him, Morgan yelled his name, sounding hurt in a way he never had been before.

Something tightened or loosened in his chest. He couldn’t really tell the difference anymore.

-

The way they came out to the team was largely unremarkable.

Hotch had been hinting towards wanting to come clean for a while. They’d gone on more public dates when they used to just get take out at Hotch’s, and he was being a bit more open in the office. There were more lunches together, though he spaced them out, and double, triple checked with Spencer if they were okay. They drove in together sometimes, but no one noticed, because Hotch got in at the crack of dawn, before the janitors from the night before had left.

There were public kisses that Spencer pretended he hated, but really loved, and Hotch knew that about him the way he knew about everything else.

They were at Rossi’s one day for a team dinner, and Hotch was assigned to man the grill. Spencer brought out a tray of uncooked hamburgers, and placed them on the stand next to Hotch. He didn’t shy away when Hotch wrapped his free arm around his waist, and pressed a quick kiss to his lips in thanks.

The rest of the team went quiet. It was somewhat of a feat, given that Jack and Henry were running around somewhere. Spencer looked into Hotch’s eyes and fought an incontrollable urge to giggle, and found his own mirth reflected back at him.

“Yeah,” Morgan finally said, after what felt like far too long. “Yeah, okay.”

-

When he got back for the second time that day, Hotch was sitting in the living room, looking at a book but not really reading it. Spencer cleared his throat, his speech prepared. It wasn’t an elegant one; it was full of excuses and gaps where he hoped Hotch would fill in his own blanks, but he needed to say something.

So he told Hotch that his new therapist was very competent, and that he was working on his issues. He told him he ran out because the session had gone on longer than expected, and he needed a bit of air. He told him, in not these exact words, that it was best for both of them, if they didn't speak about it at all.

“If that’s what you really want,” Hotch said quietly.

*

It wasn’t really sustainable.

The therapy wasn't helping. If Spencer were honest with himself, he could figure out why, but he was too focused on trying to make everything seem normal, make himself seem okay. It was a difficult thing to do when he woke up nearly nightly in a cold sweat, with a scream at the tip of his tongue. He couldn’t maintain it, when in order not to wake Hotch, he would sleep in the guest room at night, and try to slide back into bed undetected.

A few days later, he jerked awake on the living room couch, somehow groggy and fully alert all at once. In the kitchen, Jack was talking to Hotch in a child’s imitation of a whisper.

“Is Spencer okay?”

And this was when Spencer decided it could no longer continue. Something had to give.

 

* * *

 

“Could you answer one question?” Hotch asks, after a few seconds of silence. He’s turning the ring in his fingers, rolling it between his thumbs. “When did you buy this?”

They’d given Hotch half an hour to pack. Hotch took 15 minutes of it putting together a bag for Jack, and another five tossing things into a suitcase for himself. Spencer pressed himself against the living room wall and tried to be as small as possible, tried not to feel anything.

The marshals were out back and out front too, and Spencer could hear them shuffling about in his home, noises that grated his ears even though they were nothing out of the ordinary.

“Spencer,” Hotch said, suddenly appearing before him. He unfolded Spencer’s arms, took his hands between his own, and kissed him like it was their last. Hotch pulled away before Spencer could even start to panic, and his hands fell to his sides, clammy and cold.

“There’s no one better at this than you,” Hotch said, and he almost looked as broken as that day after Haley died. He kissed him again, and Spencer pressed forward to feel Hotch’s heart thump in time with his own. “Jack and I will be waiting; bring us home.”

The day after, Spencer drove to the nearest jewelry store, put in an order.

*

“I think,” Hotch says quietly. “You’re afraid you’ve let us down. That when we needed you most, you were locked away, in a situation you think was of your own doing. Do you think I blame you, Spencer?”

This is what Spencer thinks: he thinks that this was all a mistake – the stabbing, the poisoning, the refusal to give. Sometimes he thinks he should have just followed along, because that would have made him weak, but not _evil_. And then he rewinds to further mistakes – moving in, kissing him, falling in love; because the worst thing to come out of all of this is not Spencer’s realization of who he actually is, but his involvement of someone _good_.

This is what he thinks, and what he tells Hotch. He and Jack deserve better; Spencer’s never been so afraid of himself.

“You’re wrong,” Hotch says, voice clear and strong in a way Spencer’s hasn’t been in a long time. He lifts Spencer’s chin, and makes him watch as he slides the ring onto his own finger. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Spencer. I’m a little offended you thought you had to ask.” He runs his hands down Spencer’s arms; Spencer can feel, with hyperawareness, the path the ring sears into his skin. As much as he tries to suppress it, it burns the way hope used to.

“I’ve given you your space, because that’s what you asked for; what I thought you needed.” He looks up at Spencer, careful and loving. “I think we were both wrong about that. This time, could we try my way?”

Spencer’s head jerks, a resisting approximation of almost a nod. Another thing he thinks: he has never been good at saying _no_. It is a large part of why he just avoids things instead.

Hotch is still rubbing his arms, still looking at him in that way that makes Spencer’s heart ache. They’ve both lost weight in the past month, he suddenly realizes. He himself was obvious; there was no other way but down when everything tasted like sawdust and glue, but Hotch’s arms have lost some of their definition; his belt is more tightly cinched. Spencer’s hand drifts up to Hotch’s face, where the circles around his eyes match almost Spencer’s own.

Nothing’s changed. Spencer isn’t going to wake up tomorrow morning, nightmare free. He’ll still walk with his back to something solid, and flinch when people get too close. He’ll still be benched when they go on raids, this time of his own choosing, because they can’t afford for him to freeze up in a panic. But.

But he thinks about Tobias Hankel, who had been on his way to becoming only a distant memory. He thinks about shards of glass and surviving against all odds, about piercing bullets, and explosions too numerous to name, about how barely any thought is now given to those. He thinks about miracles, and second chances. Second, he thinks, can probably only happen so many times.

His voice is firmer, and surer than it has been in a while. It still shakes, but he knows Hotch understands. “Please,” Spencer says.

 


End file.
